


Turn me on, baby-o

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, HSWC Bonus Round 4, Sibling Incest, background Kanaya/Rose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She loves Dave.</p>
<p>HSWC Bonus Round 4, for <a href="http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/8507.html?thread=2134075#cmt2134075">this prompt</a>. I am helpless before Kim Gordon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn me on, baby-o

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to G. for betaing this.

He might as well be the Waste of Time these days. Forget the maroon cape, just alchemize up an ugly afghan for him to huddle under. (Rose would make him one, but...no. Fibercrafts may be inherently ironic, but there are limits.) Any day now, he's going to climb into a spare recuperacoon, sink down into old, crusty slime, and never get out.

I'm one with the slime, he'll say. Just me and my slug juice, leave us be.

She's standing in his doorway, arms crossed. She wonders if this is how her mother felt, simultaneously disappointed and anxious, needy and pissy. "You've got to get up someday."

"I'm not that bad," Dave says finally. He doesn't look up from whatever shitty game he's trying to beat and his tone is far from certain. "You're blowing this out of proportion. Mountain from a molehill, and hey look, here comes Mohammed, wants to know what the fuck the mountain's doing here and by the way, do you know the way to San Jose?"

His room -- his chamber, cell, whatever it is -- is rank. Teenaged boy who doesn't wash half as frequently as he should plus god knows what, fermented juice and crushed Troll Cheetos and pints of tears.

Rose is terrible at this meddling shtick: Dave has said so before, he'll say it again. She won't say anything, but she'll agree wholeheartedly. How does Kanaya even do it? She just wants to shake him by his filthy cowl and tell him to get with the program.

_What program?_ she can just about hear him say. _This program brought to you by the letters **F** and **U** and the number Up Yours, who do you even think you are, where's **your** moral high ground, Lushy Lalonde?_

Sighing, Rose steps inside and the door shuts behind her. "You need a shave," she says. "You look --"

"You look lesboriffic," he mutters, grudgingly, as if someone's forcing him to be nice.

"Thank you." She runs her hands down her dress, over her hips, and twists a little so the skirt swishes around her bare legs. "You look awful."

Half a smirk tilts on Dave's mouth and he mashes the buttons on his controller. "Date night?"

"Yes." She sits down next to him, perching on the edge of his bed-couch-futon-nest. Neither of them uses a real bed any longer, not since the Green Sun. "You know, I'm not without sympathy."

Dave grunts as the game's screen explodes in a shower of red and pink pixels. "Double negative. Really are getting your arch and untouchable voice on."

"I am not without sympathy," she says again, ignoring him. She enjoys her lapidary verbal constructions, thank you. Words mean things and the structures that link them mean even more. "It's quite natural, if anything to do with human emotion can be considered natural, as well as entirely predictable. A transference of all your feelings, worship and love and a good measure of resentment, from your bro to the person newly revealed to be your sister, was only to be expected. And in this case --"

"Shut up. Rose, god. Just shut up."

"No."

He drops the controller between his knees and tugs his cape over his lap, curling his hands into its fabric. It truly is his security blanket, granting every last bit of subjective omnipotence he can wring from it. "Please, shut up. Shut your goddamn Freudian mouth up tighter than Fort Knox. Please. Look, I'm saying please. Pleading. Hear my damn pleas."

"You're not the only one who has lost someone," she says.

Dave's laugh is a harsh bark that becomes a hysterical, hiccuping wheeze. Rose fights to maintain her calm, but the banality of her statement niggles at her; he is right to laugh.

"Oh, really?" Dave says, still laughing and wheezing. "Wait, I'm _not_ unique? Somebody else, somewhere, maybe even on this god-forsaken chunk of magic rock, maybe even in this very room, _also_ knows what it's like to lose someone? Stop the presses, Cantown Gazette's putting out a special issue. Not to be outdone, the Can Times-Union is sending its best to the scene."

"Your sarcasm is becoming less and less effective, either as a weapon _or_ a deflection."

"And your knowitall psych shtick was never all that effective to begin with."

Rose tugs at one strap and fixes her posture. "Well, then."

"Yeah." Dave slides down until he is nearly horizontal. He bangs his knees together, lets them fall open, then bangs them again.

She tries again. "What are you doing in here, Dave?"

He shrugs, shoulders going up to his ears, and lifts up empty palms, then lets them fall to his sides. "What _aren't_ I doing in here, is the real question. Enterprises, schemes, projects aplenty. Couple ventures, several tasks. Short-term, long-term, lifelong, spur of the moment. Everything."

She nods. "It's quite the hotbed of activity in here."

Dave tugs on her wrist, urging her to slide down next to him.

"I can't," she tells him. "Kanaya. I have a thing --"

"A lesbian troll smoochy-smooch thing."

"You sound bitter."

"Oh, I am," Dave says. "What I wouldn't give for my own lesbian troll. There's Karkat, but he looks even worse in a dress. No, I want a lipstick dyke to hug and kiss and tribade with till my thighs are raw."

"That's not a verb."

"What, tribade? Sure it is. I tribade, you tribade, he or she tribades, we tribade --"

His grasp on her wrist tightens, and his skin is very warm, and he keeps tugging, so she finally does lie down. He scoots closer, resting his head on her shoulder.

"My dress --" she tries to say. 

"-- is still sexass as fuck," he replies. He plucks at one of the straps and slips his first two fingers beneath it, stroking her skin. 

He's looking up at her, glasses down his nose, through his eyelashes. She supposes she should find him irresistible like this. It reminds her of Jaspers, actually.

"Just me, right?" Dave mumbles, dropping his gaze.

Rose exhales and puts her arm around him. "Yes."

"Say it." His hot, damp hand slides down her chest and he pinches one of her nipples.

"It's just you," she says, exaggerating the robotic flatness of her tone, "only you, just you, Dave, you're the only guy I've ever felt --"

"Forget it," he mutters, but cups her breast, thumb on her nipple, mouth on the knob of her shoulder, then the rise of her collarbone.

His erection presses into her hip. Things are so _simple_ for him. She pecks his cheek as she shimmies downward and he scoots back, opening his legs, knee catching her chin as she passes. He apologizes, breathless, voice a little high, as he hooks his thumbs under the waist of his god leggings. She hits the floor just as his dick pops free, the head sticky, a little shiny.

He squeaks when she takes him in her mouth. Every time it's a surprise.

His sarcasm ceases entirely when they do this. He's all sincerity now, gasps and pants and grunts, nonverbal and _raw_. She keeps an eye on him as she wraps her hand around the base of his shaft and licks at the pre-come. She would like to see a real expression to match his noises, something unbidden, spontaneous, but all she catches sight of is his open mouth, slick and wet, flash of sharp white teeth, dark tongue.

When she sucks harder, his hips cant up and his thighs tighten unbearably. If she did not love him (and she does, she must make that clear), she might find it sad, even amusing, how much he likes this, how very little it takes to make him feel this good and this loved.

As it is, she rather envies him this ease.

She works her tongue against the edge of his foreskin. He grabs at her hair, twists it in his hand, pulls hard, then, just as suddenly, lets go and babbles an apology, patting the side of her skull with a clumsy hand.

She looks up, pulling her mouth off him, making him whine. "It's okay. Pull hard. Go nuts."

He touches her hair softly and pushes up his hips. Sweat's broken out on his upper lip; his jaw is set rigid, his toes are curled against the floor. Rose lowers her head and closes her mouth around him again, swirling her tongue, feeling the vein on the underside jump.

In her other hand, his balls are shivering, tightening, and he's drumming the side of his fist against her shoulder as his dick jumps between her lips. She pushes almost all the way down, lets him thrust up into her, fuck her mouth until, shortly, he comes. A minuscule amount, and almost bland, compared to trolls, easy enough to swallow and wipe clean.

"And now," she says, rising, smoothing out her dress, "I really must be going."

Dave looks flushed. His hairline is sweaty, his mouth hangs open. "Rose --"

She reapplies her lipstick, smacks her lips a few times, and wonders whether she should have a mint before meeting Kanaya. She'll have a cocktail on the way: two birds, one liver.

"I'll see you later," she tells him, and closes the door behind her, and floats away.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [let me play it with your radio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/952809) by [jadebloods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods)




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